The threads
on the hem of the skirt
have been pulled out,
leaving the earth
jagged and uneven,
wounded
like the trapper
this morning
ripping the fox
from the trap
after crushing its skull,
leaving the lake’s edge
uneven.

Threads pulled out.

Threads
that bound us
that morning
as a gray fox
sprang in front of us,
a delightful look on his face
as he carried his prey in his mouth.

Threads that pulled us
to the earth’s bosom,
holding us to a cherished breast.